


Creative Writing

by LinksLipsSinkShips



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Link is oblivious as hell, M/M, Rhett is in a creative writing class, creative writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21994204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinksLipsSinkShips/pseuds/LinksLipsSinkShips
Summary: When Mr. Paul insists that his creative writing students keep a journal to improve their writing, Rhett is appalled and unhappy. He didn't sign up for a fluff class to have to write in a dang diary. But as the class goes on, he realizes there's more to the project than meets the eye, and he starts to open up to the blank page.
Relationships: Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal
Comments: 15
Kudos: 33





	Creative Writing

This project was the dumbest possible project in school history. Rhett stared at the blank page of the notebook and studied it, flipping the pages and then turning them over. A _diary?_ A friggin... diary? Creative writing class was supposed to be a fun, easy throwaway class. The class wasn’t supposed to make him keep a diary.

Sure, the teacher said he wouldn’t read anything they wrote. He’d walk by and double-check the page was complete, and then be done. He even told them he’d take his glasses off for their privacy, and shown them what his vision was like with no glasses. Rhett knew he couldn’t read it. He could just as easily write _potato potato potato_ across the page. The teacher had said as much in class, that they technically could write whatever they wanted, nonsense words, but that they wouldn’t get nearly as much out of the experience as if they actually tried.

He’d given them ideas of what to write. Snippets of conversations they’d overheard. Names they liked. Their inner monologue. Random thoughts. Their biggest insecurities. Their craziest fears. The things that made them tick. The people they liked. All of it. He encouraged them to make it their own and customize it however they wanted. He’d encouraged drawing in the margins. He’d suggested they sticker the front cover. There were many, many things he had encouraged and instead, Rhett stared at the blank page.

How could any of that make him a better writer? How could telling his deepest, darkest secrets to a page make him better at this?

Rhett couldn’t write. He couldn’t think. So he took out his pen and did the only thing he _could_ think of.

**This is so damn stupid.**

Right underneath it, he drew a giant, hairy, curved dick.

That’s what this assignment was. A giant jerk-off from their teacher. A power play. And Rhett was going to slam it right back at him. Tomorrow, when the teacher opened it, he’d see a few scribbled words mocking him, and then he’d see a giant, albeit blurry, dick. No amount of poor vision could mess with him seeing it.

In the morning, he sat down in creative writing class. He opened his notebook to the page, smug grin on his face. As Mr. Paul walked by, he glanced up at him, watching his face.

Mr. Paul looked at the page, then at Rhett. “Nice job, Rhett. Thank you for doing the assignment.” He walked past. Nothing frustrated Rhett more. He’d been expecting outrage. A negative reaction. Hell, a frown. But no. Instead, Mr. Paul had acted like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Damn.

* * *

Rhett stared at the blank page again. Another day, another insistence that he fill in a page of his notebook. He studied the page and he studied his pen and he did every other scrap of homework he could, including the extra credit work for Chemistry 2, and he was left with nothing but the blank page staring back at him.

He considered for a moment. He thought about Mr. Paul’s words. And then he started to write.

**Potato potato potato potato. Potato. Potato potato. Potato potato potato potato potato potato. Potato potato.**

He did this until he filled the page. Mr. Paul said writing nonsense was an option, so Rhett sat down and wrote nonsense. At the very bottom of the page, his hand was starting to hurt. Instead of continuing to write, Rhett took his pen and drew a potato. On top of it, he drew a giant shit, and little bits of steam coming off of it. That’s what this page was. A steaming pile of shit in the form of potatoes. The next day, Mr. Paul walked by, glanced at his open page, and said, “good. I’m glad you’re participating.” He walked on, and Rhett wanted to scream.

* * *

Rhett wondered what it was about the diary — journal, notebook, whatever it was — that made him feel the need to sit and stare at it for half an hour before he could begin writing. Doing anything with it was like pulling teeth. Rhett sat. He stared. He cleaned his entire room. He sat. He stared. He wondered if cleaning the baseboards would be going overboard at this point. And then he put pen to paper.

**I hate this stupid journal.**

**I hate that we have to write in a damn diary.**

**Who wants to read my stupid 17 year old thoughts?**

**I thought creative writing would be about slaying dragons and writing horror screenplays and new songs.**

**I did not think creative writing was about keeping a stupid diary.**

**I can do that without it being homework.**

Line after line after line was just like that. Complaints about what Creative Writing class should be. Complaints about what it actually shaped up to be.

**Mr. Paul is a joke.**

Underneath the last line, Rhett drew a picture of Mr. Paul and exaggerated his features, then drew the same shit he drew on the previous page’s potato on top of his head. He added the steam features.

Mr. Paul walked by the next day, glancing at his page. This time, he smirked. “I like your commitment.” Rhett wished he could have punched him.

* * *

Rhett glared at the page. He didn’t stare at it. He didn’t study it. He glared at it. As he saw things, he had written everything he could think to write in his diary-notebook-journal-bullshit and he didn’t have anything else to write. He paced. He glared. He paced. He glared. He stood up and walked downstairs and grabbed a soda and a snack cake. He stalked back upstairs. He ate and dropped bits of the chocolate coating on his snack cake on the page and tried to get it off and instead he smeared it and got chocolate stains on the page. It was certainly just chocolate.

But Rhett smirked and got out his pen.

**I took a shit on this page.**

**That’s what this entire lesson is. Shit. And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve wiped my ass with my journal. Are you happy now, Mr. Paul? Are you satisfied with my hard work? My commitment?**

Rhett closed the notebook. That was all the page needed. A few sentences.

The next day Mr. Paul walked by and put his hand on Rhett’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Sometimes a few words are all we need to convey a message.” He walked on. Rhett’s cheeks burned with humiliation and anger.

* * *

Rhett sat down at his desk in his room and looked at the diary. He carried it to his bed and laid on his back and stared at the diary. He laid on this floor on this stomach and stared at the diary. He folded it in half and stuffed it in his back pocket and got on his bike and rode his bike to the cemetery and had to stop twice to pick it up and put it back in his pocket and when he got there it was scuffed and the cover was starting to fall off of the spiral notebook. He sat down next to a headstone and looked at the page and got his pen out of his front pocket.

**I don’t understand why we have to write.**

**But I’ve tried not telling this diary any of my biggest fears or thoughts or anything else.**

**And that’s making for a pretty miserable experience.**

**So I think I have to say something important to make this work.**

**I’m in love with my best friend. It’s pretty stupid. I’m pretty sure my dad would kill me if he found out. And I’m pretty sure the whole thing is ruining my life anyway. No one can know. And maybe Mr. Paul is actually lying and he can read this and if that’s the case I am so, so, so screwed... but I had to say it to somebody. I like boys. I like one boy. I like Link Neal.**

**And it is a very big problem.**

**The end.**

Rhett took his diary in and he cracked open the page just a little bit. He didn’t want to risk anyone near him reading what was on the page. If he opened it any further, someone might see. And as Mr. Paul walked by, he smiled at Rhett and glanced at the barely-open notebook. “Rhett, I’m really, really proud of you.” In that moment, Rhett started to understand the whole point. He slammed the cover shut and stuffed it in his bag.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read we die like men.
> 
> This might be a one chapter or it might be more chapters. I'm not really 100% sure if I'm going to continue it or not. Thoughts?


End file.
